


A Short Philosophy of Fellatio

by islasands



Series: Lambski [42]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Cognitive Dissonance, Fellatio, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-04-23
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:05:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/389557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/islasands/pseuds/islasands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam considers the ways that strength and weakness go hand in hand when you love someone deeply, not just passionately.</p><p>The song is "House of Cards" by Radiohead....</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Short Philosophy of Fellatio

"House of Cards"

  


Radiohead

  


He watched Sauli dressing, feeling the same uneasy appreciation he always felt when viewing the hard facts of his lover’s corporeality...

Last night...

Last night those hands, currently picking up and pulling on his jeans, had held his cock in the same way as cupping something worth noticing on the branch of a flowering bush or in a florist’s shop. He had bent his head down to sniff it in that very fashion. Then he had sat back on his haunches, removing his hands, leaving Adam's cock to waver in the air, and they had both stared at it as though it was saying something, and it was embarrassing, because his erection, the plainest gesture of his sexual expression, suddenly seemed more endearing than provocative, proving he was only himself after all, an ordinary man with ordinary needs and wants, - never mind the rapids in his chest and the small, drifting galaxy in his brain.

Maybe it was the separation they had just endured, or the constant shock of how blue eyes can be, but last night’s had been the most absentminded sex he’d ever experienced. Down there, down below his abdomen, the part of him that hardened itself for the service of love was independently taking what was his to take, but in his head he was going elsewhere. He was walking down a street on his own, hands in his pockets, jiggling some keys. Unattached. Solemnly, gloriously, alone.

During foreplay he had laid his hands on his lover’s head and used them to press home his advantage, an action that was common and familiar to him during fellatio yet never without controversy in his emotions. Compassion and revulsion, greed and disappointment, always shook together in the cocktail of his desire. And deeper than that, if he had been able to put his finger on it, the need to commit a violent act of leaving. Yes. Historically, when he thought about it, whenever he was playing with fire he was always simultaneously toying with the nozzle of an extinguisher.

But last night was different. He couldn’t feel the weight of anything. His lover’s body, beneath or above him, had felt immaterial, holographic, a representation of someone he knew well but couldn’t quite remember. His own body, contrariwise, had felt so dense in factuality, so gory with blood and gristle and fats, that he had felt ill with life. When he licked his lover’s anus it felt less like turning a key in a door than preparing to pop a bubble. When he put his hands on his lover’s throat he felt as though the slightest pressure would cause his hands to pass through the flesh as though it was phantasmic and he would end up holding his own hands. When he buried his tongue in his lover’s mouth he felt as though he was immersing it in the saliva of a cloud. He had groped at his lover’s body, searching for handholds, for cracks he could dig his fingers into, for ledges that would remind him he was not alone, but his searching only accentuated the feeling he was fucking air. He felt sickeningly heavy, like a fruit that is ready to split its skin. And once he was inside him, pushing resolutely into that wobbling, trembling breakability, he had felt the stranger of his soul climb out of him, and put on his coat, and walk out into the dark.

“Come back,” he had thought to himself, but it was too late. His semen was juddering out of him. The bubble had popped. His lover, lying beneath him, was a mess, no longer made of water and air but of more slowly perishable items, and he was saying things that were incoherent, lightly skating his hands over his back, collapsing upwards into the man he loved.

The man he loved. “That’s me,” he had thought, both at the time and now, watching him putting on a tee-shirt and then his jacket. “Come here,” he said. “I want to do your hair.”  

The man who loved him came over to the bed and bent over him. He gently laid his lips over his lips, not so much kissing him as signing off a love letter. His mind was already preoccupied with his plans for the day. He was looking forward to seeing his friends. His lips were set in a satisfied line, as though he had just finished a project of which he was modestly proud. Adam looked into his eyes. He reached up and arranged his hair. “Don’t be long,” he said brusquely. He ran a fingertip around Sauli’s lips.

He suddenly grimaced at a thought that had arrived in his head like someone with an urgent message to relate. Was it bad or good news? The thought read itself out in his head.

_“You don’t just put your cock in the place where he receives the good of oxygen and expels the bad of carbon dioxide, where he creates speech and laughter and sings or hums slightly out of tune tunes, and where he chews and drinks the things that make his body a beautiful carriage of life. You put it in the mouth of someone you could hurt.”_

Beneath the sheets he laid his hand protectively over his groin. Force of habit tempted him to say the words, “I love you,” but he desisted. Not even a smile was adequate to convey his feeling. Instead, he allowed the troubling emotion of love to brim in his eyes. After Sauli left the room his stranger self, his escapist soul, appeared in the doorway, coat in hand, and smiled at him fondly. 

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End file.
